Mind The Gap
by Jamie552
Summary: Despite the heated feelings, they were still brothers. And being brothers trumped everything else. Even stubbornness. Pre-series.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Hey guys! This is my first attempt at something pre-series, so I'm not too sure how I did. I'm hoping to make this a two or three parter, but who knows lol Knowing me, it could go on forever. Anyway, I'll try to have the next one posted soon. Hope you like it, and as always, feedback makes my day! :o)

**Disclaimer:** I love Sammy and Dean, but unfortunately, I don't own them. Bummer.

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The car practically tore its way into the small city of Palo Alto, its driver hardly sparing a single second for any of the sights around him. He didn't care. He was on a mission and reaching his destination was the only thought he could stomach.

It was well after midnight and the California humidity was already feeling like a second skin under his t-shirt and leather jacket.

He _hated_ humidity.

Coupled with the anxiousness he'd been feeling throughout the entire eight hour drive, there was absolutely no doubt in his mind that he was well on his way to going completely crackers.

It was only a matter of time.

Dean Winchester had gotten the phone call at three o'clock that afternoon and his brain had been operating in fast forward ever since. His name had been Matt Wise and he'd talked for nearly twenty minutes; he was calling from Stanford, he was roommates with Dean's kid brother…and he was, at that moment, sitting at said little brother's bedside at Stanford University Medical Center.

That was all it took for Dean to pull a U-turn—faster than what was probably safe—and head in the opposite direction, towards the Golden State he'd been avoiding like the plague for nearly a year.

When Dean asked how Wise had known to call _him_, the kid explained that he'd picked up Sam's phone when first arriving at the hospital. Sam had apparently mentioned his older brother's name at some point in conversation, and his friend had searched for the correct number in Sam's phonebook.

Even though Dean had asked the question, it was irrelevant.

Sammy was lying in a hospital bed and that was all that mattered.

Torn hamstring, broken fingers…hay fever or the flu. It wouldn't have made the slightest bit of difference. Dean knew he would've made the drive no matter what.

It had been the longest year of the twenty-three year old's life. He still remembered in vivid detail the day his little brother had left, boarding a bus in Phoenix with nothing but his army issue duffel bag thrown over his shoulder. Dean had watched him pack what little he had; a few pairs of incredibly worn jeans, a small variety of shirts, boxers and socks. At his first opportunity, the older boy had managed to covertly slip what little money he himself had into a side pocket of Sam's bag—somewhere around three-hundred dollars.

It wasn't much, but it was, at that time, all Dean could offer.

Three-hundred dollars and a drive to the nearest bus station, filled with as much silent support and encouragement as he could muster.

He wouldn't have been able to deal with opening his mouth and saying out loud that he was proud or that for the first time in his life he wished he had the strength that Sam had. To know exactly what he wanted and to go for it, to hell with what everyone else thought.

Dean knew what it felt like to have dreams.

He knew what it felt like to have goals.

But unlike Sam, he would _never_ know what it felt like to go against the orders of his father and go after them. He would never know what it felt like to do something for himself.

Sam was strong enough to leave, and Dean knew that he wasn't.

They'd kept in touch religiously for the first couple months, calling each other as often as they could—each man using the phone calls as a way of making sure his brother was safe and healthy.

Even though neither one said it out loud, they both had reasons to worry; Dean worried about Sam because he was on his own in a new town, a new state, surrounded by new people and invisible threats…Sam worried because Dean was out hunting, occasionally on his own, with only a shotgun and a bag of rock salt for protection.

Not unexpectedly, the abyss between the Winchester brothers grew with each month that went by, and despite the efforts of both men to keep it from happening, a festering bitterness blossomed.

Bitterness that Sam had left.

And bitterness that Dean had stayed.

But despite the heated feelings, they were still brothers. And being brothers trumped everything else.

Even stubbornness.

The day that Sam had gone off to college was the day that an important piece of Dean had gone missing; Sam had held that piece of his older brother in his hands since they were kids, and he'd taken it to California with him.

Dean knew what it was like to walk around without any real purpose, pretending that there wasn't a gaping hole in his chest that everyone was staring through. And no matter how hard he'd tried to cover it up with charming smiles and cheap thrills, it never went away.

As Dean drove through Palo Alto, he couldn't help but think that it felt good to be needed—even though he'd rather eat cat litter than admit it out loud. After months of suppressing his instinctual big brother drive, Dean was once again coming to the rescue.

Even if an unconscious little brother didn't know it yet.

Sam's friend had given Dean directions to the hospital from Palo Alto's boarder, and along with his uncanny ability to navigate even the most obscure towns, he found it without a problem.

After parking the car in the first spot he could find, Dean took off across the small parking lot at a run.

Matt had told him over the phone that he would be waiting just inside the emergency's entrance and when Dean pushed his way through a small crowd standing just inside the door, he was approached immediately by a tall kid—about Sam's age—with dark auburn hair.

The guy gave a quick nod as a means of welcome and extended his hand politely. "Dean. Matt Wise. Good to meet you."

Dean was way too overcome with his reawakening big brother protectiveness to reciprocate the gesture, let alone ask how Wise had recognized him.

All he could do was abruptly nod his head in acknowledgement. "Where's Sam?"

"He's in a room upstairs; he was asleep when I left-"

"What the hell happened?" Dean didn't care one bit that his voice was quickly rising, and Matt ran his hand through his hair. It was obviously a nervous habit and the older Winchester related immediately. It was something he and the kid had in common. "You didn't tell me a damn thing on the phone."

"I know, I'm sorry about that, things have been cra-"

"Look, can you walk and talk at the same time? I wanna see my brother."

Hesitating slightly at Dean's abrupt interruption, Matt nodded and motioned for Dean to follow him.

The older Winchester brother did without question.

"A couple nights ago, a friend of ours threw a party at her apartment off campus. I talked Sam into going."

"And?"

"Rob McAllister."

"Who the hell is that?"

Reaching the elevators, Matt made quick work of pushing the "up" button. "He's a wide receiver for the Stanford Cardinals-"

"Football player."

"Yeah, he and Sam haven't exactly been…_vibing_ lately."

The elevator dinged loudly and the door slid open. A small crowd of people stepped off and as soon as the coast was clear, Matt and Dean quickly got on. As the door slid closed, Matt hit the button for the third floor.

"Keep talkin'."

He nodded and swallowed hard. "He's been on Sam's case since the beginning of the year-"

"For what?"

Matt let out a breath and Dean turned to look at him.

"Sam's been spending a lot of time with this chick from his Ethics class--Mary Jane, he said her name was." He shook his head for a second, as if to get his thoughts straight. "Anyway, McAllister's been into her since we moved into rez, he didn't like that Sam was around her so much."

Dean internally rolled his eyes.

Only Sammy would pick a girl with relationship baggage in the form of a wide receiver.

"McAllister had a few too many beers and flipped his shit when he saw Sammy and Mary Jane talking-"

Dean felt a sudden and violent stab of jealousy; he narrowed his eyes dangerously. "His name is _Sam_."

Matt stopped talking mid-sentence and studied Dean's face. He instantly recognized the warning for what it was because he nodded and started talking again, this time, much faster. "Yeah, sure man, that's cool…no offense meant."

Trying his best to keep himself from crack-pounding the annoying teenager into the elevator's floor out of sheer principle, Dean said, "So this son of a bitch went after my brother?"

"Yeah-"

"Over a _girl_?"

Matt nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah. Grabbed an empty forty-ounce and cracked Sam over the head with it-"

As the pair stepped off the elevator, Dean convulsively started flexing his fingers.

A new feeling blossomed in Dean's chest, pushing whatever bitterness he was feeling directly aside.

It was fury.

Uncontained and unadulterated fury.

It rushed through his veins like scalding hot water; every nerve-ending in his body jump-started, every muscle tightened instinctively. He was subconsciously planning the ass-kicking of the century; all he needed was an outlet.

Dean's pace quickened, the flaring desire to see Sam urging him forward. Matt jogged slightly in an effort to keep up with him.

He kept on talking.

"A fight started after that, the cops showed up and everyone bailed. I didn't know how bad he was, so we didn't wait for an ambulance; a buddy and me loaded him into my car and brought him here." Matt cleared his throat slightly. "The doctor said he's got a concussion, they had to give him stitches."

That couldn't have been everything.

Dean nearly snarled, "That all?"

"Rob got a few good kicks in before I pulled him off. Sam's got a couple bruised ribs-"

Dean _actually_ snarled this time. "Fantastic. What room?"

"306."

Hardly caring whether or not Matt was behind him, Dean found room 306 and pushed his way in.

The first thing he was aware of was the light beeping of a heart monitor. The second thing he was aware of was the sickening smell of antiseptic that he'd come to associate with hospitals.

The third and final thing he was aware of—because he couldn't stand looking at anything else— was the still sleeping form of his little brother, snuggled into a pile of scratchy hospital blankets. His face was pale, but throughout their lives, Dean had seen worse…there was a series of cuts across his right cheek and forehead, freshly stitched and covered with butterfly bandages…and a white bandage was wrapped around his head, holding a gauze pad in place over, what Dean assumed, was the concussion-causing head injury.

Moving closer to Sam's bed, he let out a breath and rested his hands on the thick plastic bedrail. "Dammit, Sammy." He whispered, near-silently, focusing his eyes on Sam's face.

Dean Winchester was not a man who was used to showing outward emotion. He just didn't do it. Chick-flick moments were the bane of existence, sentimental conversations gave him the fidgets and tears of _any_ kind were damn near traumatizing.

It wasn't that he himself wasn't affectionate or loving, because in his own way, he was. His feelings—when he allowed them to bubble close to the surface—were fierce and unrelenting. But it wasn't often that he let people into that part of himself.

That particular part of him was guarded and protected viciously; you had to be damn special in order to get the smallest glimpse of it.

And the little twerp—who had only recently exceeded the _official_ little brother height restriction—was one of those few special people.

Sammy was the exception to _every one _of Dean's rules.

Dean's emotions, at that moment, were waging war in his chest. His guilt, his fear, his love and his anger…all fighting for control of the battlefield that was his consciousness. Dean knew without a doubt that it was a tie between his love and his anger; love for the kid sleeping peacefully in the bed in front of him…and anger for the soon-to-be-dead kid that had put Sam in that bed in the first place.

Both had to be dealt with.

Dean's eyes, which had slipped closed, snapped open at the sound of a sleepy sigh coming from the lump of blankets. Sam's head had turned towards him, as if he subconsciously recognized the presence of someone familiar.

"Sammy?" Dean spoke in a quiet voice, not wanting to startle his slowly waking brother. Sam sighed again, his nose wiggling just slightly; it was a sure sign that the younger brother was starting to wake up, and the sight was recognized and cherished immediately.

Dean suddenly found himself having a flashback of a five-year-old Sammy, looking up with wide eyes from underneath his big brother's arm and asking in a shy whisper what they were going to do about the monster lurking under the bed.

The tall and lanky teenager that that adorable five-year-old had grown into was completely lost on Dean. Whenever he looked at Sam, all he saw was his baby brother; the dimply-faced kid who was waiting impatiently to grow into his feet.

"Dean?"

Dean had been so lost in his memories that he hadn't even noticed Sam's eyes tiredly flutter open…and then immediately widen.

Locking gazes with his brother for the first time in nearly twelve months, Dean instantly found himself ridiculously nervous.

He cleared his throat and nodded. "Hey, Sammy."

"Dean." The younger Winchester's voice was quiet and raspy with sleep as he shifted around slowly beneath his blankets. "What…are you doing here?"

"What do you think?" He sighed and shook his head. "So…a wide receiver, huh?"

Sam grimaced. "Matt called you."

"And he told me every little dirty detail, dude. I gotta tell you…you sure can pick 'em."

"Yeah, look whose talking."

Dean snorted and took the opportunity to look at his little brother. To _really _look at him.

Sam was _still_ lanky, he was _still_ tall…but Dean could tell that he was different.

He'd spent years watching Sam— studying every facial expression, every movement, every word and inflection of his voice—dammit, Dean could've made a career out of it if he'd wanted to. It was his responsibility to know and understand. It was his job to recognize bad moods and problems so he could fix them, and it was his job to recognize good moods and goings-on so he could celebrate them.

He was an expert, even if he had a year's worth of rust on his little brother antennae.

Nudging Sam's arm gently with his hand, he asked quietly, "How are you feelin'?"

"Ok, I guess."

"How's the head?"

"Surprisingly enough, it's still there." Sam swallowed and blinked somewhat slowly. "Kinda feels like it's gonna pop off and float away."

"Gotta love forty-ouncers-"

"Does dad even know you're here?"

And he'll be damned if those words weren't like a sucker punch to the solar plexus. It took all Dean had to keep from flinching. "Uh---" He let out an awkward breath. "What dad doesn't know won't kill him."

"So he doesn't know?"

"No, Sam, he doesn't know."

"And you're gonna explain that, how?"

The bitterness in Sam's voice hadn't gone unnoticed and Dean instantly narrowed his eyes, his muscles tensing all over again in preparation for an entirely different and far more _familiar_ fight. "We really gonna get into this?"

Sam cast his eyes downward. "Why ignore the elephant in the room, Dean?"

"Because what's the point in talkin' about it? You left, dad's still pissed and I'm still stuck in the middle. Nothing's changed."

"A lot's changed."

Dean couldn't deny that harsh truth.

Things had changed.

_Everything_ had changed.

The family that Dean had come to rely on for most of his life—the small threesome that _was_ his life? It was gone. Dwindled down to two. A father and his oldest son who barely spoke, except when it came to work and the supernatural…and a youngest son, off on his own, trying to manipulate his existence into what everyone else considered _normal_.

Life had been a thousand times easier before Sam had decided to become his own person.

Rubbing his eyes wearily, Dean sighed. "I know that."

"You and I haven't talked in more than five months, Dean."

"I _know_ that, Sam."

Sam swallowed hard and lowered his eyes again as Dean dropped his hands back to the bedrail and sighed helplessly.

And there was that damn elephant again, pink and polka-dotted, advertising every single thing that they _didn't_ want to think or talk about.

It was _right there_, standing between them.

And it had been there since their dad had practically dared Sam to leave.

"Can I tell you something without you giving me crap for it?"

Sam's voice was small, and for a second, he sounded like he had when he was eleven and had gotten a massive mud stain on Dean's newly inherited leather jacket.

Dean found himself nodding. "Maybe, it depends."

Sam's mouth twitched just the tiniest bit and he let out a breath, twisting his fingers nervously in the blankets. Dean instinctively wanted to reach out and rub Sam's arms to get rid of the tension, but he restrained himself; things between them were tense and awkward enough without Dean getting all touchy-feely—undoubtedly— against his will.

"I'm uh-" Sam paused uncomfortably for the slightest second before dropping the bomb. "I'm glad you're here, man."

And there it was.

The little brother hiding in the long-limbed teenager.

It was the _little brother_ that Dean missed the most; the tiny little companion that followed him everywhere he went and believed him to have every answer to every question. The innocence and the unabashed trust…the unfailing faith and confidence in big brother to make everything right.

Shutting off that part of himself had been one of the hardest things Dean had ever done—in fact, it ranked up there on his top ten list, alongside watching and letting Sam leave in the first place.

Sam had left to pursue something _else_…something more…and even though Dean would never admit it out loud, it felt damn good to hear that he'd been missed.

"I just…don't want you getting static from dad for comin' out here."

And just like that, the moment was destroyed.

Dean decided that silence was the best policy, pointedly ignoring Sam's words. "So, tell me." Sam looked up and met his eyes. "This...son of a bitch wide receiver that knocked you on your ass? Where is he now?"

Sam's shoulders drooped just slightly. "Why?"

"Just curious."

"Dean, I don't need you going all _militant_, ok?"

"_Militant_? What the hell does that even mean?"

"You _know_ what it means."

"Sam, just tell me where the asshat is."

Sam sighed and shook his head. "It doesn't really matter."

"Dude." Dean frowned in annoyance. "The guy hits you over the head with a forty-ounce, and you're sayin' it doesn't matter? Is he with the cops?"

"As far as I know he's at the dorm. A cop came by this morning, said that he's probably gonna be expelled from the school."

"That's it?"

Sam looked genuinely confused. "What else did you expect?"

"Oh, I dunno. Charges up the _ass_. Maybe a cell-mate named Buster in the state penn? Somethin' along those lines?"

"Since when do you think _cops_ and _jail-time_ is the best policy?"

"Never."

Sam nodded quickly. "Exactly."

"You pressin' charges?"

"There's no point. McAllister has no criminal record, he'll get probation and community service at the most."

"How do you know that?"

"The cop told me." Sam quirked an eyebrow. "And I'm studying it, remember?"

_Oh yeah, I remember._

Dean sighed, running a hand through his short hair. He could feel his anger rebuilding in his chest—wanting nothing more than to deliver his own personal brand of justice—so he tried to casually change the subject. "You still feelin' ok? That Matt kid said somethin' about bruised ribs?"

Sam shrugged a shoulder and let out a quick breath. "It's no big deal. Doc said it wasn't a problem; shortness of breath, that's about it."

"Yeah. But how do you _feel_?"

"I have a headache the size of Dallas, but otherwise, I'm ok."

Dean leaned forward just slightly. "You should try and get some sleep. I'm gonna go and find your doctor, find out what the hell's goin' on."

"You're gonna stick around?"

Sam's voice was small again.

It caught Dean's attention.

Looking down at the younger man's face, Dean saw it right away; the subtle _need_ in Sam's face to know that Dean would be there whenever he woke up.

It was then that Dean realized just how exhausted Sam looked; the blue bruises underneath his eyes, how his blinking got slower and slower as he sank further into his blankets.

From a big brother to a little brother, the nod that Dean gave was as iron clad a promise as he ever could've made.

"Yeah, I'll be here."

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**I'll have chapter 2 posted soon! Thanks! :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Ok, well, here's chapter 2. I know that it's insanely short but it just felt like the right place to end it. Turns out this story _is_ going to be three parts, and the third one is in the works right now. With some luck, I'll have it posted tonight--but if not, it'll definitely be up by tomorrow. Thanks to everyone for reviewing! :)

**Disclaimer:** I wish I owned them, but I don't. I'm just borrowing them for a bit.

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The conversation that Dean had with Sam's doctor—if having medical mumbo-jumbo spewed at you for twenty minutes could be considered a conversation—was, thankfully, incredibly positive. Sam's concussion was minor and they were watching it carefully, and apart from having some tightness in his chest and a slight shortness of breath, his ribs were well on their way to healing.

Even though he'd been told Sam's injuries weren't life-threatening, Dean couldn't help the enormous tidal wave of relief that crashed over him. It was a weight off his shoulders to know that Sam was going to be fine.

Full recovery expected.

There was nothing wrong with a report like that.

Dr. Cooper had left him standing by the nurses' station and when Dean eventually returned to his brother's room, he found him peacefully asleep and snuggled into his blankets. Sam was curled into a tiny ball, his arm draped protectively over his injured midsection.

Sam was nineteen years old. He was practically a man.

But laying there the way he was, curled into a tight ball, only made him look younger.

Dean decided to take advantage of the opportunity. He had absolutely no idea how long Sam would be asleep and, since he promised he would be there with the kid woke up, he knew he'd have to move quickly.

Making his way back down to emergency, he was lucky enough to find a map of the Stanford campus by the registration desk.

He folded and shoved the pamphlet into the pocket of his leather jacket.

***

As he directed the Impala onto Stanford property, Dean had to try hard to keep bitterness from clouding his vision. Despite the late hour, students roamed the sidewalks; some were carrying books and bags and small groups poured out of what he assumed were either study halls or libraries.

He couldn't help but shake his head.

It was friggin' one-thirty in the morning and these people were _studying_.

Dean snorted to himself.

Some people just _didn't_ have their priorities straight when it came to Saturday nights.

He found himself a little overwhelmed at first at how enormous the campus was. There must've been a thousand and one buildings, there were signs _everywhere_.

The Impala rumbled to a gentle curbside stop and Dean reached over, popping open the glove box. He grabbed the small wooden box and quickly opened it, rummaging through the countless fake ID's that he'd accumulated over years of lying through his teeth.

Settling on a San Fransisco badge that he'd snaked from a bumbling beat cop months before, he snapped the box closed and replaced it in the glove box.

A group of about four students emerged from one of the closest buildings and he slid from the car, shutting the door quickly behind him as he approached them.

"Excuse me?"

The four teenagers turned to look at him. One of the guys, probably a little older than Sam, raised his eyebrows. "Yeah."

With a natural ease that could convince practically anyone, Dean pulled up the badge and flashed it. Four pairs of eyes widened just slightly but he pretended not to notice. "I'm lookin' for the athletic housing. Football?"

The guy nodded. "Football's over in Blackwelder Highrise." He pointed up the street. "Take Campus Drive, make a right onto Hoskins Court. You lookin' for someone specific?"

Dean nodded, stowing the badge in the pocket of his jeans. "Yeah, Rob McAllister."

"He's in building 104, on Hoskins it'll be on the right."

Giving an appreciating nod of thanks, Dean said, "Thanks, man." The guy nodded and Dean watched as the foursome continued on down the sidewalk.

He stood there for only a second and took a deep breath.

Then, as if on auto-pilot, he turned and made his way back to the Impala.

***

Building #104 of the Blackwelder Highrise was easy enough to find…so was a parking spot directly outside.

Dean remembered the anger that had flooded his veins earlier that night and he didn't hesitate in the slightest as he walked with a purpose towards the residence's front door.

He'd raised his hand and knocked before his brain made even made the connection with the action.

Delivering justice was a normal practice in Dean's life; it may have been justice against the _supernatural_, but it was still the same idea. He helped strangers on a daily basis, putting himself in dangerous situations for people he'd never even met—he bled for those people, he fought for them and he protected them with absolutely everything he had in him.

For the first time in nearly twelve months, he was about to put himself out for someone he really and truly cared about.

Protecting people was his business. Protecting _Sam_ was his purpose.

The door flew open and Dean found himself face to face with a blonde-haired kid who had the appearance of a college football player down pat.

Dean thought they only wore their jerseys to bed in the movies.

"McAllister here?"

"Who are you?"

Dean couldn't help but narrow his eyes. Apparently the jock pain-in-the-ass cockiness wasn't just in the movies, either. "A friend. Get him out here, will you?" Blondie obviously couldn't care less and he let out a breath, moving back inside.

It took Rob McAllister two minutes and sixteen seconds to make it down to the front door.

Dean knew. He counted.

When the door opened again, a guy only an inch or two shorter than Dean emerged. He had dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes that were probably used as a means of being intimidating. He couldn't be more than twenty-one years old.

_Intimidating, my ass. _

After making eye-contact, Dean moved away from the front door and beckoned for McAllister to follow him. "Come here."

The kid frowned. "Who are you?"

"Come out here."

McAllister looked more curious than threatened and Dean's muscles tensed in anticipation. With a quick glance backwards into the house, he stepped outside and descended down the one step of the small front porch.

As soon as he was close enough, Dean made his move.

Pulling his hand back, he landed a ferocious hit to the side of the kid's face. The strike was completely unexpected and McAllister went down, landing awkwardly on the cement of the front walk.

Without wasting a single second, Dean grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him roughly to his feet, slamming him mercilessly against the wall of the building.

"What the _hell_, man-"

"Shut up and listen-" Dean's voice was dangerous and he moved his face within inches of the kid's. "Last night, you went after someone with a bottle. You put my little brother in a hospital bed-"

He started struggling, trying to pry Dean's hands off his shirt collar; all Dean did was tighten his hold and move a fraction closer.

"I'm gonna tell you somethin', and dammit, you better listen…'cause I'm only gonna say it once." He went straight to the point. "My brother is off limits. If you _ever_ touch him again, I shit you not, I'll come back here and kick your ass up between your shoulder blades. You hear me?"

McAllister merely nodded, and it wasn't nearly good enough.

"Don't nod at me. Say it…_out loud_."

"I hear you."

With one more rough shove into the wall, Dean released his hold on the shirt and took a slow step backwards.

McAllister watched his every move, and without even a backwards glance, Dean turned and headed back towards the main road, finding an incredible amount of satisfaction in the wide receiver's panic-stricken breathing.

***

The older brother quietly slithered back into the darkness of Sam's hospital room. Even though it was well past visiting hours, the nurses had only smiled at him as he'd passed by the desk...warm smiles that were encouraging as well as reassuring. He was sure that the staff had been made to practice them, to perfect them to make sure there was _just enough_ sympathy and _just enough_ kindness.

He'd seen enough of those smiles throughout his life--the patented hospital smile. And while he knew that they were meant to be comforting, he really didn't care whether he got them or not.

As a man who's brother would be walking out of that hospital, he figured he wasn't entitled to those small comforts. Save them for people who genuinely needed them.

Sam was still fast asleep when Dean carefully lowered himself into the chair beside the bed. The plastic creaked slightly, but Sam remained completely still.

Then, and only then, did Dean finally relax; slowing down his breathing so that it matched his brother's. It was something he hadn't done in what felt like forever, and as far as he was concerned, it was the perfect time to make up for it.

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**Chapter three will be up soon! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **So...back a million years ago, when I first started this story, I said that the third and final chapter would be posted _soon_. I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to get this chapter up and running; real life struck, as well as writer's block (at the same time, what the hell is _that_?!) and I just couldn't get it done. But creativity finally hit me today....so here it is! Thanks to everyone that reviewed and sent me messages, you guys are amazing :o)

**Disclaimer:** Even after a million years, I still don't own them. A girl's just gotta keep on dreamin'...

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"_Dean?"_

He could hear the familiar voice echoing across his unconsciousness; it was well-known, the soundtrack to practically every thought and good memory in his mind.

His little brother.

The only voice in the world that he responded to immediately, whether awake or not.

Taking a long and deep breath, Dean slowly opened his eyes. Sam was awake, looking at him sleepily from inside his shelter of blankets.

It was almost astonishing how _small_ Sam looked at that moment, snuggled low into the warmth and protection of his bed. Maybe it was the big brother in Dean that saw it, or maybe it was just because he'd been thinking about it, but he didn't feel as though he was looking at a nineteen-year-old.

What he _saw _a six-year-old who believed whole-heartedly that hiding under the blankets was the only sure fire way to be safe.

But then reality set in.

It _was_ a nineteen-year-old…and he was only snuggled because he was cold.

It was amazing how only a few short years could change a person's entire perspective.

"Sammy." Dean adjusted himself in his chair slightly, trying his best to bring himself to immediate alertness. His entire body was tired but he shoved the feeling aside; he was mad at himself for falling asleep in the first place. "How you feelin'?"

It was almost imperceptible, but Sam shrugged just slightly. "Ok, I guess. Kinda drowsy."

"The doctor give you anything?"

"He tried to, but I didn't want it."

The older brother quirked an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Because I'm tired of being tired, Dean." Sam said quietly. "All I do is sleep."

"You're in a hospital, Sammy. If you don't _sleep_, what the hell else are you gonna do?"

"I think there's an old man down the hall who's building a house outta tongue depressors?"

Dean couldn't help but snort, rubbing his right eye tiredly. "Yeah, you should get in on that."

"Yeah, watch me go." After a second, Sam said, "What time you get back last night?"

"I dunno…around two, I think."

"Where'd you go?"

It was a question that Dean had been expecting, and it was a question that he was _completely_ ready for. Even though the Winchester brothers had been apart for going on twelve months, there was absolutely no doubt in either boy's mind when it came to how well he knew the other.

Dean knew, that for a Winchester, Sam was incredibly shy. Despite the younger man's obvious intelligence—academics, research, legends and theories—the one thing Sam was _not_ was street smart. As the saying went, Sammy was a lover, not a fighter; he absolutely hated confrontation and avoided it wherever possible. He was naïve in that patented little brother way.

Dean was the exact opposite. The older man _wasn't_ shy—in any way, shape or form. And although he was intelligent as well, it was different; he could clean, load and fire almost every kind of firearm imaginable…he could tell the difference between a skinwalker and a shapeshifter without batting an eyelash or consulting a book…and he could tell merely by the sound of the Impala's engine when there was a problem and precisely what that problem was, all by ear.

They were different. They knew it, and they were ok with it.

Where one lacked, the other restored the balance.

If for some reason, Sam couldn't defend himself? Dean wielded the iron fist.

"Where do you _think_ I went?"

If it were possible to both narrow _and_ widen your eyes at the same time, it would describe perfectly the expression on Sam's face; astonishment, coupled with a complete lack of surprise.

"Dean, please tell me you didn't."

Dean shook his head absently. "Sorry, Sammy, I can't."

"Why would you _do_ that?" Sam whispered, trying hard to shuffle across his mattress to be just a little bit closer. "If he reports it, you're gonna be in trouble-"

"It doesn't matter if he reports it."

"What? Why not?"

Dean barely smirked. "I hit him open-handed. Invisible marks."

"No bruising."

Both brothers said the words at the same time—Sam, again, with an air of astonishment, his eyes adorably wide—and Dean nodded knowledgeably. "Exactly. There's nothin' for him to report."

"What about the other guys at the house?" Sam's voice was slightly hoarse and he swallowed hard. "Someone else must've seen it-"

"Sammy, they were inside the house _and_ it was dark. Not to mention McAllister's roommates most likely have the combined IQ of a raisin."

Sam laughed weakly. "More brawn than brains?"

"If you ask me, the blondie who answered the door was lackin' _both_."

"How big was he?"

"Oh, he was enormous."

The younger man's smile grew just slightly. "Did it matter?"

Dean made a face and waved a hand dismissively. "The larger they are, the harder they fall, Sammy."

*******

The bright California sun was shining brilliantly later that afternoon and the light breeze that blew across the back of Dean's neck made goosebumps rise on his arms.

But it was a comforting feeling; warm and inviting. The past few weeks of his life had been rainy and damp so he welcomed the change in the weather. Even though he _hated_ California simply on principle—it _was_ the state that had lured away his little brother, after all—he couldn't deny that he enjoyed the sunshine.

Even if it was against his will.

"So, are you gonna stick around for a while?"

Dean turned his head and focused his eyes on his little brother's face.

The air was pleasantly warm and thankfully not too humid as they sat together, side by side, on the old wooden bench.

The park was only a few minutes from the University campus and far enough away from the hospital that Sam felt free for the first time in over twenty-four hours. His release just an hour beforehand was quick and thankfully painless, the doctor having prescribed pain killers for his achy ribs and instructions to return to the hospital in just over a week so the stitches in his cheek and forehead could be removed.

The brothers had then quickly packed Sam's small bag and made their way down to the Impala, which was now parked only a short walk from where they were sitting.

Dean knew his kid brother better than he knew himself, allowing him to recognize immediately the rigidity and nervousness that took Sam over the second he'd laid eyes on the familiar car.

The estranged younger Winchester hadn't sat in that car since the abysmal day Dean had reluctantly driven him to and dropped him off at the bus station only an hour outside of Phoenix, Arizona.

Dean had almost expected a grimace of pain when he'd watched Sam slide into the passenger seat.

Letting out a breath, he squinted in the sunlight. "I dunno, man. Beaches…chicks in bikinis. Not really my style."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, right."

"What, you think I'm kidding?"

"No, I think you're full of it."

Dean chuckled quietly, leaning forward and resting his arms on his thighs.

A loud barking broke the companionable atmosphere and both brothers watched with interest as a Frisbee went suddenly sailing by them, a golden retriever following a half a second later.

The older Winchester couldn't help but shake his head.

The lifestyle of the apple-pie variety gave him the creeps.

"So—" Sam leaned back against the bench. "How long are we not gonna talk about what we're not talking about?"

"What do you mean?"

"Dad." When Dean looked at Sam over his shoulder, the younger man held the gaze despite the sudden heat in the familiar green of his older brother's eyes.

"What about him?"

"Were you serious when you said he doesn't know you're here?"

Directing his eyes back towards the frolicking golden retriever, Dean answered in a flat voice. "He thinks I'm on a job in Oakland."

Sam couldn't hold in his surprise. "You _actually_ lied to him?"

"You sound surprised."

"I am."

Dean's hackles instantly rose. "I lie all the time, Sam."

"Yeah, but never to dad."

Dean looked at Sam again over his shoulder. "I gotta be honest, man, listenin' to you spout static about dad isn't high on my list of crap to do-"

"No, but _leaving_ is on your list…isn't it?"

The words were sudden and unexpected, and not for the first time since he'd arrived in Palo Alto Dean could hear the little twerp baby brother in the teenager's voice.

That beloved little twerp hadn't been heard from since almost two weeks before Sam had left for Stanford—he'd been replaced by a man, impatience and a desperate need for independence shifting the very essence of who _Sammy_ was.

Dean missed _Sammy_, but it would be a cold day in Hell before he admitted it out loud.

"Are you sayin' you actually want me to stay?"

Sam shrugged, looking down at the grass between his shoes. He kicked around a pebble somewhat miserably with the toe of his sneaker. "It'd be cool…y'know, if you wanted to."

Dean's eyes warmed considerably as he studied the hunched figure sitting beside him. It was a rare thing, especially lately, to have his baby brother admit he wanted him around—even if Sam hadn't admitted it outright.

It was amazing how alike they were.

Both were reluctant to admit things to one another, even something as simple (and emotional) as wanting to arrange more time spent together.

But for every one thing they had in common, there were five things that made them different.

That understanding sent a slight pang through Dean's chest.

He took a deep breath, and said, "Don't you have classes to go to and general nerdiness to take care of?"

"I have a doctor's letter for the next couple days, I'm not due back in class until early next week."

"Yeah, then shouldn't you be takin' it easy?"

"I'm sick of bein' in bed, Dean."

Dean nodded knowingly, accepting that.

"I could always take you surfing."

Quirking an eyebrow, Dean snorted. "What?"

"Surfing. We could drive up to Pacifica, the beaches up there are pretty good-"

"Dude…do I _look_ like a blonde-haired surfer boy to you?"

Sam couldn't help but laugh. "Well you got sure the lingo down, _dude_."

"Bite me."

More quiet and soft laughter.

The two brothers casually fell into silence as they sat there together, neither one willing to talk about how Dean's phone kept vibrating in his jacket pocket…neither one willing to talk about how the older man's lone duffel bag was already packed and thrown into the back seat of the Impala…neither one willing to take the first step towards _goodbye_.

Because that's exactly what it was.

With Sam's strong independence and busy schedule, along with Dean's "criss-cross the country as fast as you can" mentality, there was no telling when they'd see each other again.

Probably when little Sammy pissed off the quarterback with his _next_ girlfriend.

The silence seemed to be answer enough.

Sam audibly swallowed. "So where you headed next?"

"I dunno. Gotta call dad, see if he has anything new for me."

"You like huntin' on your own?"

Dean squinted in the sunlight, voice flattening. "It's different."

Sam recognized the change in his brother's voice for what it was—a dismissal…a silent declaration that him hunting on his own was the very last thing in the _world_ he wanted to talk about. It was a sore spot that was raw from _constant_ poking and prodding, and as Sam had seen many times, poking and prodding at it usually caused Dean to shut down more so than anything else.

The separation of the Winchester brothers was a defining moment in their history, a moment that played an enormous role in their lives, no matter how much they each (silently) wished it didn't. It had changed who they were as people, as men and as brothers…it was a rift that would always be there, hiding, below the surface of their otherwise flawless relationship.

All the happy memories of fighting over the last bowl of lucky charms, learning how to play poker in the back of the car, big brother waiting for the little brother after class? Those memories couldn't erase the smarting reality that they were no longer _together_.

For the first time since Lawrence, they were miles apart—physically _and_ emotionally.

For the first time since Lawrence they were away from each other, in every possible way they could be.

"You gonna be ok?"

Dean heard how full of concern his own voice was and for the shortest second he wanted to feel embarrassed. He didn't very often show blatant concern, it just wasn't his way; when he was worried or anxious, his normal reaction was to get angry.

Because it was easier to get angry than to allow himself to feel afraid.

But at that moment, as the question fell from his lips, he couldn't force himself to feel angry. It wasn't the proper time for it. After months and months without Sam's presence, he could stand to show some concern for his kid brother, dammit.

Sam snapped out of his reverie and blinked owlishly for a moment. "Uh…yeah." He nodded, catching his lip between his teeth for a second.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

"I'll uh…I'll call tonight sometime, check on you." Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. "Maybe every couple days, too, 'till I know you're back in class, y'know?"

Dean Winchester translation? _You just got outta the hospital, and even though I have to leave, I'll call to reassure myself that you're doin' alright._

Sam almost smiled. "I'll keep my phone on me."

"Good."

Dean Winchester translation, number two? _You better, 'cause if you don't answer, little brother, I'm turnin' right around and comin' back to specifically kick your ass __myself__._

That time, Sam _did_ smile. "Yeah."

And once again, neither one took the first step towards _goodbye_.

The angst surrounding their dad was avoided as carefully as possible and John Winchester wasn't mentioned again, by either brother.

It would only cause problems between them and they had somehow silently agreed that if they needed to jump back into _goodbye_ with both feet? They'd rather that, this time, it was on better terms.

It was nearly an hour later that the Impala rumbled to a gentle stop, right at the curb of Sam's Stanford residence.

They exchanged few words, Dean's affectionate ruffling of Sam's hair the only real physical emotion that was displayed. Hugs were few and far between…tears were damn near taboo. So they settled for something simple.

Dean's eyes watched Sam protectively as the younger man pushed open the passenger door and slid out of the car. He tried to immediately arrange his features into the perfect big brother mask of stoicism as Sam leaned in through the open window.

He was a pro, after all.

"So you'll call tonight, then?"

Dean nodded, settling lower into the driver's seat with one hand resting lazily on the wheel. "Yeah, probably around nine or ten."

Sam let out a breath and bobbed his head, taking a quick glance around the interior of the car—stealthily trying to once again commit it to his memory. "Heading East?"

"Probably. Can't head West, this Chevy don't swim."

He chuckled. "One of the only things in the world she _can't_ do, huh?"

"Damn straight." Dean's fond smile slowly faded. "Last I heard, there was somethin' in Denver…might as well head that way."

"Just…be careful, ok?"

The unabashed warmth in the younger man's voice made Dean's breath hitch and he forced himself to nod. "Yeah, you too, Sammy."

Their eyes met and all the emotion of a hug passed between them. It was as emotional as either Winchester would allow himself to get.

After a second's hesitation Sam pulled away from the car and moved up onto the sidewalk, sending a small wave in through window.

Dean returned it as best he could before pulling away from the curb, trying his damndest to _not_ watch as Sam got further and further away in his rear view.

****

Dean had only been on the road for about two hours when he finally caved and dug his cell phone from the pocket of his jeans.

Calling six hours before he'd said he would was a sure sign of older-brother-anxiety, but he didn't care.

"Hey Sammy, miss me yet?"

He cared even less when he could practically _hear_ his kid brother's relieved smile on the other end of the line.

Dean Winchester translation, number three? _Because I sure as hell miss you._


End file.
